A Summer By His Side
by Kaguya Endymion
Summary: Thomas cannot hope that his feelings for Lt. Courtenay will ever be reciprocated. But a man can dream, surely? [Sad ending/Slow build]
1. Chapter 1: The Cruelest Kindness

**Chapter 1: ****The Cruelest Kindness**

Thomas Barrow felt a little strange now that he was back. Downton Abbey had changed little in the two years he'd been away in France. The war seemed like a distant dream, happening to someone else, somewhere else. It felt almost comforting to find the familiar faces and familiar places; and at least O'Brien seemed glad to have him back, if nobody else was.

'What about your blighty?" she asked, as they shared the familiar smoke in the kitchen courtyard. Thomas let out a puff and smoothly took off his glove to brandish the bullet wound through the flat of his left palm. The doctors had suspected his cowardice, he was sure of it. Luckily, a lowly medic didn't warrant an investigation, and he was sent back. He was going to continue service under Major Clarkson, so he couldn't be a complete traitor, eh?

'My God', O'Brien whispered.

'It's not so bad. And it lived up to its name, and got me home.'

There was a brief pause. 'You'd better come inside,' she said, leading the way. A final puff and Thomas followed her in.

* * *

Carson the butler and the rest received Thomas's return decidedly coolly, but he didn't care. He wasn't working for the big house anymore, and his services were certainly welcome at the hospital. He rather enjoyed his work, and although he would never admit it, he found joy in helping the soldiers heal and recover. Although he sometimes felt like he was just a different kind of footman, especially with Mrs Crawley and Lady Sybil – or properly Nurse Crawley – working at the hospital.

One day, as he was entering the room with some freshly laundered linens, he heard them arguing about some dinner Sybil could or could not attend that evening. 'Thomas, you can cover for Nurse Crawley, can't you?' Mrs Crawley suddenly asked. How insufferable! Would he have to remind her that he had seen active duty?

'Of course I can, I'd be glad to'. Someone would have to, and he'd rather not be responsible for a prolongation of their maddening chatter. Sybil asked him if he could give Lt. Courtenay his pills. Thomas didn't know him at all, but administering medicine seemed like a fine way to talk with the quiet fellow.

* * *

Most of the hospital staff had retired to their quarters for the evening. The soldiers were settling in for the night, and Thomas found himself chatting with Lt. Edward Courtenay, describing his his pre-war life at Downton Abbey, getting shot (in this version, it wasn't on purpose), , and his work at the hospital. Thomas was embarrassed to think he might be boring him. Maybe he should let Lt. Courtenay speak for a while.

'What about you, sir?' Thomas asked. 'What did you do before the war started?'

'I was up at Oxford.' Edward said wistfully. 'But I only ever planned to farm… Farm, and shoot, and hunt, and fish, and everything I'll never do again,' he concluded with a twinge of bitterness.

'You don't know that, sir. We've had cases of gas blindness wearing off.'

'Rare cases, and much sooner than this,' Edward replied. 'It doesn't help me to be lied to, you know. I'm finished, and I'd rather face it than dodge it,' he concluded.

Thomas really _did_ feel embarrassed now. This is what comes of getting too familiar with officers – you get cosy and then they knock you off the armchair. 'I'd better go,' Thomas said quietly. It seemed the conversation was over.

As he walked away, Edward cursed himself. The truth was, he felt terribly lonely, and now he'd rebuked the one person who'd spoken more than two friendly words to him since he'd arrived here. Edward decided to be more civil next time.

* * *

Edward's widowed mother lived on their estate near Huddersfield, and Thomas helped Edward cope with the distress of having to break news of his blindness to her. Edward looked close to tears by the time he had finished dictating the letter to Thomas. Poor, dear Edward! How Thomas wished he could wrap him in a tight hug and ease his troubled mind. But that would be wholly inappropriate.

'Don't be upset sir, she'll be proud of your sacrifice,' Thomas reassured him, as he went about changing his bandages. His life nowadays seemed to revolve around wrapping and unwrapping people, like macabre Christmas presents.

'How? How can you be sure of anything?' Edward snapped back. 'I'm terribly sorry Barrow,' he continued, reigning in his tone, 'It's a vexing business for me.'

'That's alright sir, we're in it together.' Barrow replied with a small chuckle.

At least the mustard gas had spared most of his youthful face, Thomas thought thankfully while he finished changing the bandages on Edward's eyes. The fine tracery of scars around his left eye looked almost translucent in the morning light, as it lit up his pale, beautiful features. His eyes were rendered a ghostly blue-grey by the poison, and it made him seem hauntingly ethereal in Thomas's eyes. Edward kept a stiff upper lip through all if it, of course. Hope and despair danced upon his face like light and shadow.

'Thank you Barrow,' Edward said as the bandaging was completed. An involuntary smile crossed Thomas's lips - if only Edward knew how much his happiness meant to him.

'Now, shall I read you the paper, sir?' Thomas asked.

'Very kind of you', he replied with a little nod.

* * *

A reply arrived next week from Edward's mother. Thomas made it a point to read it to him. It gave him an occasion to spend time with Edward again.

Mrs Courtenay was concerned about his well-being, but seemed even more concerned about the management of the farms. Apparently "Jack", whoever he was, sent his love and had suggested that he should take over the reins from Edward. Now that, you know, he was blind and useless. People are cruelest when they think they are being kind.

'…and whatever you think, Jack has your best interests at heart.' Thomas read out.

'Stop', Edward said in disgust as he turned his ghostly eyes away.

'Who's Jack?'

'My younger brother – he means to replace me. It's what he's always wanted.'

Thomas could sense the darkness returning, clouding Edward's visage. He wasn't sure what to say next. He fumbled with the letter instead.

'I'm sorry, I mustn't bore you,' Edward said.

'Don't let them walk all over you,' Thomas responded quietly, 'You've got to fight your corner.' Heavens knows, he'd been pushed to a corner himself more than once.

'What with?' Edward asked with a pained smile.

'Your brain. You're not a victim, don't let them _make_ you one.'

'You know, when you talk like that, I almost believe you,' Edward said, his eyes glistening with barely contained tears, and a joyless frown playing upon his brow. Thomas lamented Edward's misfortune, but in that moment he felt a deepening kinship with the lieutenant. Here they were, two broken clocks both in need of mending. Edward may not recover his sight, but at least Thomas could try and heal his spirit.

'Well you should believe me. All my life, they've pushed me around just 'cause I'm different,' Thomas blurted out.

'How? Why are you different?' Edward asked, puzzled. Thomas felt ashamed. He was supposed to be helping Edward – instead he was trying to help himself. He cursed his craven, perverse flesh and decided to brush off his momentary weakness. 'Never mind,' he said lightly. He knew Edward was too much of a gentleman to try and pursue it further.

'Look, I…I don't know if you're gonna see again or not,' Thomas said, hesitating to put into words the nameless truth they both knew, 'But I do know you have to fight back.'

Edward seemed to freeze. With the afternoon sun forming a halo around his curly hair, he seemed just like an angel to Thomas – a seraph of marbled loveliness. Soundlessly, Edward placed a tentative hand on Thomas's knee and gave a gentle squeeze. This simple gesture gave him more assurance than anything Edward might have said. Thomas responded with a gentle pat. Edward's fingers felt warm and strong under his own. In that moment, the world felt right again.

[End of Chapter 1]


	2. Chapter 2: Razor's Edge

**Chapter 2: Razor's Edge**

The next month, Edward was well enough to start basic rehabilitation exercises. He seemed to be enjoying learning to walk by himself, his face set in concentration as Sybil and Thomas helped.

'That's right sir. If you move the stick fast enough, you don't have to slacken the pace,' Thomas said, as Edward used his walking stick to 'see' his way through the impromptu obstacle course they'd set up in the hospital garden. Sybil added, 'Check the width of the space as well as any possible obstruction'. They shared a look, both ready to step in at the first hint of a wobble. The garden was beautiful this time of day, although it looked like rain in the evening.

'Lt. Courtenay, well done,' Dr Clarkson's voice rang out as he approached the trio across the lawn, 'you're making good progress.'

'Thanks to my saviours, sir,' he replied, indicating Sybil and Thomas.

'So you'll be pleased to hear we're all agreed that it's time for you to continue your treatment elsewhere,' Dr Clarkson continued, his tone turning business-like.

'What?' Edward asked, astonished.

* * *

Clarkson was adamant about it – Edward would be leaving for the convalescent home in Farley tomorrow. It made sense, Thomas supposed, but he refused to reduce a flesh and blood person – dare he say friend? – to a triage statistic. Edward needed more time to adjust to his new condition before he was thrown to some strangers a hundred miles away.

Edward had not taken kindly to the news of course. He'd requested, then begged Clarkson to let him stay for a little while longer. Major Clarkson finally pulled rank and sternly reminded the lieutenant that it was his duty to make way for the freshly wounded coming in from the battle of Arras in France. Thomas found himself trying to stick up for Edward, but was silenced by a glare from Clarkson. There I go again, making a fool of myself because I can't rein in my sentiments, Thomas scolded himself.

Clarkson was not going to take this insubordination lying down, especially not from a jumped-up footman. Thomas kept a stiff upper lip while Clarkson berated him in his office. 'Sir, I only meant to say, Lt. Courtenay is depressed…'

'I will _not_ leave wounded soldiers freezing or sweating under a canvas because one junior officer is_ depressed_!" Clarkson said, cutting him off sharply.

Have it your way, Clarkson, you always do, Thomas thought bitterly. It seems this machine war has made machines of us all. Thomas returned to the garden to discover Edward sitting under a lonely yew tree.

'I'll be sorry to see you go, sir,' Thomas said softly.

Edward seemed to break out of a stupor. 'Sorry, did you say something?

* * *

Thomas was lying in bed, but he couldn't sleep. His restless mind returned again to this afternoon's scene. Although he'd tried to comfort Edward as best he could, he was haunted by the utter desolation that had been writ large upon Edward's face, his eyes like vivid pools of anguished starlight.

Thomas felt a bit muddled. Old feelings, feeling of love and companionship, thoughts he'd decided to bury alongside the landmines in France, returned to the surface. Outside, the rain kept battering the windows like a hail of bullets, and a haze shrouded the clear May moon.

'Well I'm buggered if I sleep a wink,' he muttered to himself as he threw on his sleeping gown and decided to take a last round of the dorms. Maybe the night air would bring him to his senses. But he knew he'd be drawn to Edward's bedside, like a moth to a flame.

* * *

'What're you doing?' Thomas cried out, his voice slicing through the thick darkness of the night. His hands shot out assuredly – on the battlefield, he'd often had to treat wounds with starlight his only aid. His fingers slid against warm wetness as he gripped Edward's wrists, his fingers pressing so tight that Edward gasped. The razor gleamed dimly as it dropped to the floor, making Thomas's heart ache. He brought Edward's hands together to inspect the cuts. The blade had been wielded purposefully, and the sticky redness of blood stained the linens and dripped down to the floor in slick threads.

'Help! Somebody help!' Thomas screamed. The commotion had already awoken the other patients; some were switching on their bedside lamps. Thomas felt Edward shaking underneath him, and he realized the lieutenant was crying; evanescent sobs punctuated the commotion as a couple of the resident nurses rushed in, already armed with bandages and towels.

Thomas felt numb as the nurses clamped down their hands on the cuts and began hastily winding bandages, bringing down pressure on the wounds to stop further blood loss. As he stepped aside to supervise the nurse's work, Thomas's foot touched something cold – the razor, glinting crimson under the lights.

* * *

It was late afternoon the next day when Edward came to. He felt a tube of some sort piercing the crook of his right arm, and his wrists securely bandaged. The room was silent; perhaps the patients were in the garden. Or perhaps they've moved me to a different room for psychiatric patients, Edward thought grimly.

He tried to push himself upright on his bed, but he was too weak and let out a whimper. He felt warm and strong arms looping through his, hugging him tightly, as they lifted him up into a sitting posture. The figure then took a seat by Edward's bedside.

'I'm afraid you won't be using your arms for some time,' Thomas stated matter-of-factly.

Edward's heart skipped a weakened beat. He felt wretched for abusing Thomas's concern so criminally. His eyes downcast, he replied, 'A little weak, I suppose. I…I hope you won't think of me as a coward. I'm not sure that…'

'There's nothing to think about sir,' Thomas said firmly with a hesitant smile. 'Please let me know if you need anything; I'm never far away.' He got up, checked the saline drip, and gave Edward's shoulder a light squeeze. 'You'll take care of yourself won't you?' he asked, his voice tense and sad. Edward's life had been on a razor's edge, so to speak, so it was important there were no...complications in the healing process. Edward had no answer, so Thomas left to start his evening rounds. He had fallen asleep at Edward's bedside after a chaotic night, so there was a lot of work pending. He'd have one of the nurses come in to stay by Edward's side.

Edward let out a heavy sigh. Without realizing it, he'd been holding his breath. There, as the late day lit up the room in amber and gold, he felt a familiar wetness on his cheeks. They're still useful for some things, Edward mused.

[End of Chapter 2]


	3. Chapter 3: My Aching Heart

**Chapter 3: My Aching Heart**

'It happened because we _ordered_ him to go,' Sybil said, her eyes downcast. She, Dr Clarkson and Mrs Crawley were pacing the garden, discussing the Courtenay situation.

'We don't know that,' Mrs Crawley replied softly.

'This is a tragedy, I don't deny it,' Dr Clarkson said, his face uncomfortably grim, 'but I cannot see what other course was open to me. We have no room for men to convalesce here, and Farley is the nearest house I can send him to.'

Mrs Crawley stopped walking. 'There is a solution and it's staring us in the face,' she said, 'Downton Abbey.' Dr Clarkson frowned and replied, 'Would they ever allow it? Or even consider it?' Their eyes came to rest upon Sybil. A light seemed to flicker behind Sybil's eyes. Her words were hesitant, but measured. 'I think they would. After this, I think they can be _made_ to.'

* * *

Downton Abbey was ready to fling its doors open to the war wounded as a convalescent home after three weeks of careful cajoling, deliberations, and not too few arguments. Lady Grantham and Mrs Crawley were to jointly oversee its operations – Thomas could already sense a storm brewing there.

He and O'Brien were smoking under the arch of the kitchen entrance. He tried to come up to the big house once a week to catch up. Even though he was well shot of Carson and the rest, he still revelled in the latest downstairs gossip. It seemed they were hunting for someone to manage the daily operations – the ladies upstairs could hardly be expected to command orderlies about and deal with linen counts and staff complaints and such. O'Brien seemed to think Thomas would be perfect for the job. Even if he wasn't, she'd get back her only real friend and ally.

'Suppose I don't want to come back?' Thomas asked. O'Brien didn't usually do a good turn without expecting one in return.

O'Brien knew what Thomas wanted. She replied, 'To be in charge? Telling Mr Carson what to do?'

She was right. He'd like that very much. 'Why? What's in it for you?'

'Alright, it's to stop Mrs Crawley from bossing her Ladyship about. She behaves as if she _owns_ the place.'

How strange, Barrow thought. Last time they'd spoken on the topic of Lady Grantham, O'Brien had been decidedly less loyal. Oh well, fickle is the heart of woman, or so he'd been told. And the idea of ordering old Carson about rather tickled his fancy.

* * *

In the end, the military police were not informed of the "incident". It was felt it would be best for Edward's mental recovery if he was surrounded by people he trusted. As foretold by the surgeon, he recovered the use of his hands after three weeks, with regular care and exercise. Thomas was busy taking charge of the convalescent home, lording it over his former boss Carson (as acting sergeant), and generally making himself useful to the powers that be. He even had his old room back in the servant's quarters, which was the closest Thomas felt to actual nostalgia. However, he made sure to be present when Edward was finally well enough to move to Downton.

Edward clasped Thomas's arm firmly as he was led into the recreation room, which used to the main library. 'I think you'll find this a rather lively place after the hospital. At any rate, you'll have better company than me, sir,' Barrow said, with a laugh. Am I babbling again, Thomas wondered. I hope I'm not babbling.

'I'm sure I shall be very comfortable here. Please, call me Edward. I'm quite sure I won't be seeing active service again.' Thomas felt a little alarmed and wondered if the melancholy had returned, but then he saw Edward flash a grin. An actual joke! 'Very droll, sir. But perhaps not in front of the others, wouldn't be right for morale.' 'Right you are, Thomas. It'll be our little secret.' Thomas felt himself swoon a little, but hopefully not enough to be noticed.

* * *

Edward was wincing a little, but the notes rang true. He'd discovered the piano in the recreation room, and was now finally well enough, in September 1917, to play it. Edward had at last regained full mobility in his arms. It would have been a shame if he'd been crippled as well as blinded, Thomas thought to himself as he stood entranced by the nameless, haunting music filling the vaulted room, as the summer rays filled it with a dappled golden glow. In Belgium, Ypres was seeing some of the fiercest fighting of the war yet; but here in the tranquil Yorkshire countryside, the piano bid tender farewell to the sunset.

Thomas had never really given much thought to music. Growing up in Leeds, the staccato of carriages upon cobbled streets, the cries of hawkers, the distant roar of the factories and his parents' frequent squabbling filled his life's libretto. Now, he felt ashamed of his complete lack of talent. Why was he incapable of creating anything of beauty in this world?

The playing came to a gentle halt. 'Barrow, I sense something's the matter. What is it?' Edward asked, concerned. 'Ah, nothing to worry about sir… what's the name of the music you just played?'

'It's the Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven. Surely you've heard it before?'

Yeah, maybe if I'd had servants and tutors like you. 'I'm afraid I'm not a musical man, sir.'

'Nonsense! You've never had the opportunity, that's all. Why don't I teach you?'

'Oh, that would only lead to frustration, sir.'

'Come, humour me! It'll rather help pass the time.'

Thomas felt uneasy, but he did as he was bid. He sat down next to Edward and placed his hands palm-downward above the keys, as he'd seen others do.

Edward's hands lightly touched Thomas's own. 'Let's start with the arpeggio – hullo, what's this?' Edward asked. Thomas realized he was still wearing his left-hand glove. 'I'll just take that off, then,' he said. But this left his mangled wound exposed, and it seemed just as unsightly as the first time Thomas had seen it unwrapped. Edward's fingers brushed the jagged surface of the wound, where keloid scars criss-crossed the top of his palm like freakish cobwebs. Edward's fingers felt warm and dry against Thomas's skin, and they lingered upon the scar, almost caressing it, nudging against the surface, feeling out the course of the old wound. No doubt he thinks I'm some courageous hero, Thomas thought to himself, instead of the coward I actually am.

Thomas wished Edward would leave it be. 'To tell you the truth, I don't think you'll get much playing out of me. I can barely grasp a doorknob with this busted hand.'

'I'm sorry, it was impertinent of me,' Thomas mumbled after a pause, letting Thomas's palm go. He gave Thomas's knee a familiar pat, a gesture that had come to symbolize their friendship, as Thomas pulled his glove back on and stood up from the bench.

'if you don't mind me saying,Thomas, it's rather comforting to know the war scored both of us. '

Thomas wasn't sure what to say to that. 'The nurse tells me you've run out of your dosage. I'll bring it to you tonight.'

As Thomas left, a melancholy waltz filled the air.

* * *

The Battle of Passchendaele ended with an Allied victory and with it some good news for Thomas – he was to be promoted to sergeant! He'd proven quite indispensable to keeping the peace between Mrs Crawley and Lady Grantham. Apart from O'Brien, the only other person he really wanted to tell was Edward. He found him sitting in the courtyard – it was surprisingly mild for November.

'I have some news Edward!'

'Oh, so do I.' Edward replied as he turned his face toward Thomas. Thomas found it remarkable how adept Edward had become at presenting a semblance of normalcy to the world, although his eerie gray-blue eyes saw nothing of it.

'Well go on then!' Thomas wouldn't have dared such jocund insolence a few months ago, but the battle-lines drawn across Europe had also erased the divide between genteel and common.

'I'll be going home after New Year's. Dr Clarkson thinks I should be perfectly capable with some help and proper medication.'

Going…home? But Downton's your home now, Thomas thought, momentarily bewildered. He had no words. He had imagined an endless summer, with Edward – laughing, teasing, maddening Edward – by his side. Foolish, foolish man! He cursed himself for believing in self-invented daydreams. Thomas blinked away hot tears and strained to keep his voice level.

'Oh, that's wonderful news. You'll be back in Huddersfield soon, then?'

'Yes, I've quite made up my mind. Jack, my brother Jack that is, will be getting leave in February. I would rather meet his as master of the estate than a cripple in a convalescent home. He must understand that I intend to put up a fight if he means to oust me. And _you've_ given me the courage to do it, Thomas.'

Thomas felt happiness and heartache together. It was a singularly unpleasant sensation. 'Well then, we must make sure you have a proper Downton Christmas.'

'And imagine, the war will be over by then,' Edward said with a lopsided smile.

Thomas felt his heart quite burst. Was this anytime to make jokes? He couldn't speak – it was all he could do to place a hand on Edward's shoulder, to show he didn't mind, not at all.

'Well, it is a time for miracles, I suppose.'

[End of Chapter 3]


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